Intoxicated with success, he had grasped at omnipotence, and for a time had seemed to enjoy it, only to fail.

The mills of the gods do grind slowly, but they do grind immeasurably small in the end.
What a long, bloody way he had traversed since Toulon, since Arcola, since the bridge at Lodi, since Marengo?
Into what far-off lands it had led him: Italy, Egypt, Syria, Spain, Austria, Prussia and the great, white, cold empire of the North.

And all the long way paved with corpses--corpses he had regarded with indifference until to-day.
It was cold in the room, in spite of the fire in the stove.

It reminded him of that dreadful retreat.

The Emperor covered his face with his hand.